


That Old Gang of Mine

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: Roaring Hot [7]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Noir, Dark Harley, Dark Tony, Dubious Consent, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, F/M, M/M, Mental Instability, Mob Boss Tony Stark, Mob Type Violence, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Language, Polyamory, dark bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:06:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22640740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: Part 7 of the "Tony Stark is an insane 1920's Mob Boss and there's sex everywhere" fic, which, okay, SOME OF YOU ARE ASKING FOR MORE. I'll write more as long as you ask for it, ya crazy mooks.... Are we seriously seven stories in already?Updated to add in some missing paragraphs at the end, Woops!~~~Peter keeps getting it wrong, in this new life he's living ... until he gets it so very right.
Relationships: BASICALLY EVERYBODY/EVERYBODY - Relationship, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Peter Parker, Harley Keener/Peter Parker, Harley Keener/Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Harley Keener/Steve Rogers, Harley Keener/Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Harley Keener, James "Bucky" Barnes/Peter Parker, Natasha Romanov/Peter Parker, Natasha Romanov/Tony Stark, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Steve Rogers, Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Series: Roaring Hot [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591804
Comments: 118
Kudos: 352





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the amazing mindwiped and jf4m, THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH. I'm sorry if you now need to clean up your soul. I'll... I'll pay for the cleaning, just get me the receipts. As always, any remaining errors are all mine.
> 
> If you've read darkfic before, proceed, mine is pretty tame so far (later chapters may get worse).
> 
> If you HAVEN'T read darkfic, let's have a quick chat about the genre. Darkfics are full of dubious consent, even abuse. This one will skirt the edges of that second option. There will be dubiously consentful sex, which you will be able to interpret either direction, your choice. There will be period-appropriate racism, sexism, all kinds of -ism. There will be prostitution and drugs and a bunch of violence, including strong corporal punishment and what looks like domestic abuse to me. It's hard to say, because the victim sure seems fine with it, but it also might be some heavy gaslighting. Because I know underage squicks so many people, Peter will be of age when the sex starts, but that doesn't mean that the characters aren't going to mess with him (and turning 18 is not a magic wand for sexual relationships to be healthy). Darkfic is fun because it's not reality and it can let you have some nervous experiences without actually being endangered. Please proceed with your comfort level. You can email me at tellmenoagainplease@gmail.com if you want to check in about specific triggers.

The second week of Peter’s new life settles into a new rhythm, with Mr. Stark and Pepper back home. Pepper demands to tuck him into bed every night, after the Devilside contingent heads to the cars, yelling and laughing, some already red-cheeked with liquor. She and Peter talk softly about the day, the things he did- well, thinks Peter guiltily, the things he can share with her- all the successes she sees as he tries to be so good for everyone. Being tucked in so early means he can get up when Mr. Stark first rises in the morning, get up and drink sweet coffee and help Natasha and Pepper dig through papers. 

On Tuesday night, Mr. Stark wakes him when the crew gets back only to shove him into Bucky’s arms to be walked down to Bucky and Steve’s rooms and tucked into their bed. Bucky’s hands are everywhere, all over him, overwhelming, until Steve rolls Peter to one side and climbs on top of Bucky. They don’t, they just _rub_ , it’s nothing but kissing and rubbing, Peter’s pretty sure, but it makes him feel hot, so hot, as he lays there on the shaking bed. Peter can’t even see anything because it’s dark and the covers are up over them, but Bucky’s growl and panting are audible, as are Steve’s quiet orders and grunts. Whatever they’re doing, it lasts some time before Bucky gasps and groans, and Steve does, too, and then they both chuckle. Steve shoves Peter back into the middle of the bed, murmuring about how fucking filthy hot that had been, and they both drape arms around him, falling back to sleep easily, dragging Peter back to his dreams with their slow breathing.

In the morning, Bucky sleeps in and Steve goes for Peter’s coffee, bringing it to him with a slow, smug smile and settling in next to Pepper on the opposite couch. Peter works with Pepper on the Gilbreth’s contract all morning, as she teaches him about the language of those things, and is shocked when he reads what their commission fee will be. “That dollar sign is only the sprinkles on the top,” she tells Peter, seriously, her eyes soft and kind. “The Stark Empire is worth so much, son, we’re the richest people in the _world_. We could buy them outright if we wanted, down to their last child, if we wanted. But we don’t,” she adds, as he gapes at her. She smiles at him and says, “Now you can see why all of the managers turned white when you were introduced, and circled like sharks at lunch.” 

He nods, because even though he knew that, he knew Mr. Stark was rich, knew Pepper was rich, he didn’t ever think- it’s strange to think, that it’s his, now, too. He sets his jaw and listens carefully, because he’s got a lot to learn about managing people, managing contracts, and he has to catch up as fast as he can.

His mornings belong to Pepper and the Empire, but not until after Clint takes him up to the range, before the dew has even dried up from the grass. He thinks Clint hasn’t hit his bed, most mornings, because he always looks a little pie-eyed and worn, and Natasha always comes to collect him and put him to bed after an hour or so, when the sun has started drying things up. But Clint’s there, and even a little sotted, he’s demanding and precise. He pulls out a bow and arrow on Wednesday morning, saying projectiles are projectiles and the arrow is the best way for Peter to learn to pay attention to the wind. 

Peter learns so much from him in the few short mornings they spend together that it matches everything he learns from Pepper in the rest of his day. When he dreams at night, he dreams about calibers and cartridges and cylinders, and contracts and cursive and the difference in the angle of his elbow at the table with a soup spoon and with a 1919 in his hand. His head spins, with how much he’s learning, and so he’s grateful for his afternoons, once Harley is awake, because you can’t learning anything when Harley’s messing with you.

Harley being awake means being touched, and teased, and being kissed. Harley’s real adamant about the kissing, and about Peter trying things out on Mr. Stark, showing off everything he’s learning. On Tuesday, Steve grabs Peter out of Harley’s busy hands by the back of his shirt near the collar and says, “Need to borrow him,” and hauls him into Pepper’s room. He tosses him at Mr. Stark, and says, “Your Angel needs a nap, Boss.” Mr. Stark looks at him slowly, and Peter’s heart thumps in his chest wildly, but in the end it’s Peter and Mr. Stark both shirtless and in their drawers, tucked in on Pepper’s bed, sleeping soundly, before Peter even really knows how they got there. No one interrupts them, so Peter lays in the hot afternoon heat when he wakes up, and listens to Mr. Stark’s heartbeat, and feels calm settle back into his bones.

It’s Thursday now, Thursday of his first week being a Stark, and Peter can still feel that calm in his bones as he creeps out of bed, the big bed because Harley had come home last night and insisted Peter join him in it, fingers stroking everywhere on Peter’s body before he fell fast asleep and left Peter panting in dazed confusion.

He creeps out of bed and grabs up the pants he wore the day before, throwing them on and slipping from the room, his boots in one hand. Clint doesn’t like it when he walks to the range barefoot, but he also doesn’t make Peter walk back down and find hose and shoes to put on, and honestly, it’s too hot, it’s just too hot, for shoes, and no one but Pepper can convince him to put them on voluntarily. He’ll slip into the boots once he’s at the range and take Clint’s glare as he walks up the hill.

He meets Steve in the hallway, and Steve has his mug already, eyes warm on Peter’s face as he hands it over. “Gonna go shoot?” he asks quietly, as they walk past Pepper’s suite to Natasha’s. Peter nods, taking a sip, shrugging his suspenders over his shoulders. 

“Saw he had the arrows out yesterday,” comments Steve, which doesn’t surprise Peter at all. Steve’s everywhere in his day, always around, always handing him things and guiding him places, a shadow that Peter never expects to pop up but doesn’t even notice half the time when he is around. Steve’s presence is becoming as familiar to Peter as the sensation of clean drawers every day, and as welcome. 

“Bucky said to tell you he’d grab you, after,” says Steve lowly, as Peter shifts in front of Natasha’s door, because he knows it’s the right time for Clint to be ready, he can feel it, but he’s not knocking and risking Tasha’s wrath. Peter swallows, because Bucky’s little ritual is the one time of his day when he still feels nervy and out of place, no matter how routine everything else is becoming. He pushes the thought of Bucky and shaving firmly out of his mind. He’s here, at Clint’s door, and when Clint comes out, which’ll be soon, they’re going to go shoot.

“Oh,” remembers Peter suddenly, and smiles over at Steve over his coffee, whispering conspiratorial, “Did I tell you?”

“No, what?” asks Steve, a slow smile creeping over his face. Peter likes that smile, likes how it makes him remember that first kiss, likes how it makes him feel butterflies and bashful in his stomach.

“Remember how Natasha was saying she missed them buns, them vatrushka buns she always had when she was a kid?”

“Yeah, sure,” says Steve, and Peter eyes him because it doesn’t _sound_ like Steve remembers, at all. He shakes his head, because if there’s one thing he’s learning about the Stark Mansion’s family wing, it’s that it’s full of people with heads full of all kinds of things, and none of them are great at listening to what’s really important, underneath all them facts and figures and plans. He shakes his head, thinking about how all of ‘em will go to Timbuktu for Mr. Stark but they won’t lay still with him for an afternoon nap. Mr. Stark isn’t the only one cracked, is all, he thinks quietly.

“Anyway, I found the recipe and I gave it to the pastry chef, day before yesterday, in the second kitchen, and he made her some for breakfast yesterday,” Peter tells Steve happily, keeping his voice quiet. “And Karen says she made a big deal about it, too, them making them buns for her like that. Karen says she ran into Tony’s room and woke up him and Pepper and made them eat one each!”

“No-o,” says Steve, slowly, the smile Peter loves broadening just a bit. “Well, no good deed goes unpunished, I hope you know. She’s gonna figure out it was you.”

“Maybe,” says Peter doubtfully. “I’m just glad she liked ‘em so much. Karen said she ate four!”

“She’ll be busting out of her Symington side lacer, you keep being so nice to her,” chuckles Steve. “You better watch it, she’s powerful concerned with keeping the Boss’s eyes on her where they belong.”

Peter grins at him and retorts, “She ain’t never gonna have a problem with that, Cap.”

They smile at each other, sharing a moment of admiration for Natasha, and then the door opens and Clint slips out, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Well,” he grunts, “Let’s go, gang.”

Clint’s acting strange at the range that morning, with Steve there, maybe because Steve doesn’t leave, like he’s done every other morning this week. He’s touching Peter more, making more corrections to his stance, his arms, his grip. At first Peter thinks maybe Peter is being sloppy, maybe he’s messing up, but then Clint shows him how to correct his sight on the 1919 by snugging up behind Peter, sliding his hand down Peter’s outstretched right arm, and resting his other hand on Peter’s hip. He’s never, he’s _never_ gotten so close to Peter on any other day that week, and when he slips his thumb to tuck behind Peter’s left suspenders, Peter starts to breathe shallowly because he thinks he knows what’s going on, here. 

He presses back, just to see what Clint does, and when Steve draws a huge intake of air, that cinches it for Peter. He smiles, just a little, where no one can see him, because Clint’s breathing goes a little funny, too, the hand on Peter’s suspenders twitching convulsively. He waits for Clint’s next instruction calmly, for once, because maybe this is how Harley feels all the time, messing with the people around him. It’s a heady feeling, making both men breathe funny, just by shifting his weight.

“Okay, kid,” says Clint lowly, right next to Peter’s ear, his hand twisting Peter’s wrist the smallest amount. “You got it, that’s just right. Loose elbow, remember, now.”

Peter nods, and shoots, in quick succession, taking the time to breathe in between each one just like Clint’s been teaching him, feeling sure and steady. When he’s done with the round, Clint’s hand drops down, pats his hip, and says, “Yeah, you got it, look at that grouping, you did it, Angel,” and his voice is just a little bit huskier than it usually is.

Peter twists to smile up at him, exhilarated by the praise, by the accomplishment, and is caught by the sharp look in Clint’s eyes. He takes a nervous step forward, and Clint’s hands fall, and Clint says, “Let’s do some bow work, kid, let that settle in a bit.”

“Yes, sir,” says Peter, obediently, and he doesn’t look over at Steve at all, but he can feel Steve’s hot gaze on him as Clint drills him in his bow work. Clint’s hands are still just a little heavy, just a little lingering where they touch, as they bend and direct Peter’s body to the exact angle the other man wants. Peter breathes deep and doesn’t twitch under Steve’s gaze, under Clint’s hand. He breathes deep, and thinks of Harley, and smiles as he lets loose his first flights.

When Natasha arrives, Peter is walking back from the target with his latest quiverful. He watches her tilt her head, her lips pursed, as she looks with curiosity at the three men under the range’s roof. She eyes him up last and he keeps walking, although he’s not ignoring her gaze. He wants to flinch from it, but there’s nothing there to be nervous about. She’s just _looking_.

“Well,” she says, her voice as heavy with humor as with her accent, “I think I may regret leaving for the tour so soon, Steve, Clint.” She pauses a moment and then adds, with a sharp smile that makes Clint wince, “Peter.”

Peter takes a deep breath and places the quiver on the table with careful hands. He looks up at Clint, who is staring at Natasha, having one of their silent conversations, all twitches and small aborted facial expressions. He can’t tell what’s being discussed between them, but he guesses some of it, because Clint’s eye narrow and his cheeks flush the smallest bit, and his eyes dart first to Peter and then to Steve before shifting back to Peter again. Peter says, quietly, trying to summon up all the admiration and gratitude he feels and put it into words, “Thank you, Mr. Barton, sir. Same time tomorrow?”

“Yeah, kid,” says Clint on a puff of air, turning his back to Natasha and gathering up his kit, as he does every morning, his hands steady and precise.

Peter backs away, and he tries not to let the smile he feels inside twist his lips as he looks to Steve.

Steve frowns at him, standing up from his lean against the range’s pillar. Peter feels his heart drop as the man stalks over to him and says, “Okay, let’s go, breakfast, Angel.”

Steve grabs his arm and pulls him past Natasha, who murmurs, “Gentle, Captain,” pitched for their ears only. Peter winces as Steve’s grip tightens on his bare arm, his bare feet struggling to find the right rhythm to keep up.

As they get further from the range, Steve’s grip loosens and he mutters, “He always like that with you, Angel?”

“Like what?” asks Peter, confused.

“Touching you like that? He been doing that all week?” Steve frowns down at Peter.

“Oh,” says Peter. “No. That was, I thought he was doing that for you,” he admits uncertainly.

Steve blows out a breath, and stops walking, standing there shifting. “Might could be,” he says, suddenly, some of the tension leaching out of his frame. He frowns down at Peter. “Clint’s tricky, Angel. Might could be he was set on edge, me not leaving you alone. Might could be,” he adds, slowly, “he felt safer havin’ me up there watching, too.”

Peter is even more confused, and the sinking feeling hasn’t let up. “Did- did I do something wrong?” he asks Steve in a small voice, thinking of how he’d pushed back, how he’d _let_ Clint touch him. “Did I-”

“No,” says Steve harshly, and then takes a breath and continues, more calmly, firm, “No, Angel. And Clint ain’t done nothing wrong, neither.”

“Then- what-? Steve?” Peter can feel a small trickle of fear slide down his spine, staring up at the lines on Steve’s face. He’s always getting things _wrong,_ making people mad at him. Makin’ people laugh.

“Clint’s just Devilside, and I ain’t holding his leash,” says Steve at last, firmly. “I’d trust him with my life in a fight, I trust him with Hellcat regular.” He blows out a breath. “I just, you’re something else, Angel. Something sweet and soft.” His thumb rubs gently on the skin of Peter’s arm. “Just don’t like thinking of him batting at you, is all,” he mutters.

Peter frowns and points out, “You bat at me. Harley messes with me. Bucky _shaves_ me every day, Steve.” It’s a point of contention, Steve knows how he doesn’t like it, how it makes him squirm.

“It’s different,” sighs Steve, and then winces. “Or, no, it ain’t. It ain’t, Clint’s a stand up fella, it’s fine, Angel, I’m sorry, it’s me. God, Bucky’s gonna laugh, don’t you dare tell ‘im.”

Peter shakes his head and then, because he can’t not check, he can’t not ask, he mumbles, “Clint’s okay, though? I didn’t- it’s okay, to let him- to let him touch like that?”

“Shit,” swears Steve, glaring at a nearby tree, and then he drops Peter’s arm to lift Peter’s chin, tilt Peter’s head back and look seriously into Peter’s eyes. Peter looks around, checking, quickly, but they’re still far from the mansion and there’s no one in sight. Of course there’s not. Steve would know that better than Peter, it’s Steve’s job to track those things. Steve gives his chin a little shake and Peter focuses on Steve’s face.

“Peter Stark,” Steve tells him, and Peter swallows, hearing it. “You are as safe with Clint as you are with Harley, as you are with _Bucky_. The things he wants to do to you are no different than the things _I_ wanna do to you. And letting him touch up on you ain’t any different than letting the Boss do it. No one here is gonna hurt you, Angel. No one.”

“Then- then why-” protests Peter, because he _hates_ not understanding, he hates that there’s always all these things, these lines he doesn’t understand, around this house. He’s always tripping into something everybody laughs about because he should just know, and now something’s wrong between Steve and Clint and it’s about _him_ and he doesn’t even know what he did. He can feel the tightness in his chest and it makes his jaw clench because of course, now he’s gonna go crying crocodile tears, that’s great, that always helps get him out of these situations where he’s messed up. _Just swell._

“That’s on me, Angel. Snuck up on me,” chuckles Steve. “Wasn’t expecting it, but we never had an Angelside around the place was like you.”

Peter tries to breathe away the tears, staring at the buttons on Steve’s shirtfront. “What snuck up on you?” he gasps, finally. If Steve would just- if they all would just _explain_ , he can be _good_. He _can_.

“Feeling anxious about you, wanting you kept safe,” says Steve, lowly, one hand sliding up to brush the hair off of Peter’s forehead, tuck it behind his ears, hands gentle. _Gentle, Captain_ , Natasha had said with a smirk. “Wanting you for mine,” he says, even quieter. 

Peter stills. _Oh_. He looks up into Steve’s waiting eyes. _Oh._

“Yeah, Angel,” nods Steve. “And you can see how that don’t work around here, way this family runs.” Peter reviews everything he knows, his head spinning, and nods. “I hold Bucky’s leash, and he holds Harley’s, and Mr. Stark has us all on his, but I don’t have no pull over Clint, and I shouldn’t need it,” admits Steve quietly. “Should be enough Mr. Stark says he’s family. Ain’t nothing wrong with Clint,” repeats Steve. “Ain’t nothing wrong with you liking how he touches you.” 

Peter shakes his head, trying to deny that, but Steve clucks his tongue and says, “Angel, baby, you gotta stop pretending about that, if you’re gonna walk around here blushing and letting Harleycat stick his tongue down your throat all afternoon.” Peter blushes and shrugs, because he can’t help it.

“Okay, we’re going back up there,” says Steve suddenly. “Can’t leave it like that.”

“N-no,” gasps Peter, pulling out of Steve’s hands, taking a step back.

“And I say yes, don’t you start with me, Peter Stark,” says Steve firmly. Peter tightens his jaw for a second, but flinches when Steve steps forward, grabbing him by the other bare arm and walking him right back up the hill to the range. 

Natasha is perched on the railing as they approach, and she turns her head to watch them, one eyebrow raising up in evident surprise. Peter can see her mouth move, and then Clint stands beside her, hip shot, looking rumpled and tired, eyes narrowed as he watches them approach.

“Here,” says Steve bluntly as they cross from the cool wet grass to the concrete of the range’s floor. He shoves Peter at Clint, letting go. Peter puts a hand out to steady himself as he almost crashes into Clint, shooting Steve a glare over his shoulder. “Give ‘im a goodbye kiss, got him all worked up, can’t leave him like that, Hawkeye, he’s with Pepper all morning.”

Peter looks up into Clint’s face and gulps, telling Clint quickly, “You don’t have to, Miste-” but he’s cut off by Clint’s lips, descending on his.

Clint’s kiss is all power and efficiency, a kiss stripped down to the absolute essentials, perfected after years of dedicated practice, Peter has no doubt. Peter has no doubts about anything, Peter has no doubts, Peter barely has thoughts, barely has any way to stay upright under it. He notices that Clint’s holding onto his elbows, holding him up, the grip tight enough to be almost bruising, but Peter’s not struggling, he’s melting, and he appreciates the support, appreciates the strength of those hands, guiding him to just the right angle for the kiss to keep going. He feels the moment when Clint decides they should stop, a quick shudder through both of them, and then Clint is pulling back on his elbows, dropping his hands, dropping Peter back to stand on his own feet, and taking a step back. Peter gasps and looks up, eyes shocked and wide. 

Clint is glaring down at him and Peter shivers. 

“Shit,” swears Clint, and then his hands wrap around Peter’s skull in a gentle cradle, and they’re kissing again. It’s as powerful as the last time, and Peter’s melting again, he can’t help it, Clint’s hands are the only thing holding him upright, Clint’s hands, and a need to keep the kiss going, keep Clint’s attention on him, hold just the right angle for Clint to keep this perfect moment going.

This time, when they part, Clint spins Peter and pushes him back at Steve, who catches him easily. 

“Call me Clint,” orders Clint in a raspy voice, as Peter gasps and pushes away from Steve, shaking his head a little, flushing. “F’fuck’s sake.”

Natasha snorts.

“You, too, ‘Tasha,” says Steve. Peter gasps, clutching at Steve’s shirtfront for balance.

Natasha drops to the ground lightly. She slaps Peter’s right hand down, batting it back from Steve’s chest, turning him to face her. She tells him, softly, “You kneel.” 

Peter drops to his knees, right there, he’s so scared of her, hellfire chasing all of the air out of his lungs, making his legs obey her when everything else inside him says _run_. His hand trails down Steve’s shirt as his body sinks, catching on Steve’s pants leg and clutching as Natasha tilts his face up to her with one single finger. “You are a good man, Peter Stark,” she murmurs. He nods, because that sounds good, yes, everyone tells him he is, he is definitely going to try to be, he doesn’t _want_ to disappoint her. “I have never had one of those before,” she tells him with a wicked smile, and then her fingers slide through his hair and her mouth covers his.

It’s completely and utterly different from every other single kiss he’s ever had. Her mouth is so small, and soft, everything about her so small, and the softness is a lie, she’s not soft at all, she’s smooth and sleek and powerful, his chest is heaving because he can’t, he can’t breathe, her tongue is nothing like Harley’s and yet it’s much the same, darting here, _taking_ there. In only a few heartbeats, there’s no part of Peter’s mouth that isn’t hers, hers and hers alone. Whatever she wants, he wants to give it.

Steve shifts, he can feel Steve shift his weight, and his hands clutch tighter, because he’s _drowning_ , why isn’t anyone _helping him_. He whines a little, because maybe they just can’t see, maybe, maybe they need to know he needs help, and Natasha chuckles, and _keeps kissing him_.

When she releases him, it’s as abrupt as Clint, a sudden stop that leaves him dizzy and sinking, head resting on Steve’s thigh. He pants for breath and realizes they’re all chuckling at him after a second. He glares up at them and Natasha clucks her tongue, making him flinch. “Little Petya,” she teases, “do you think you I will let you scratch at me?”

“Thank her,” says Clint roughly, and when he looks the man is glowering down at him. Before he can even open his mouth to give the man a retort, Steve’s hand knocks the back of his head, too.

“Th-thank you,” stutters Peter, flush rising to his cheeks.

“I am welcome,” she tells him, smirking, clearly enjoying her idea of a joke.

“Up, Angel,” says Steve after a moment. “You said your goodbyes real sweet. Thanks Clint, ‘Tasha. See you at breakfast?”

“Yeah, Cap,” says Clint, as Natasha murmurs, “Yes, Steve.” Peter struggles to his feet, Steve steadying him a little with one hand.

“Let’s go, Angel,” says Steve, grabbing Peter’s bare bicep again, tugging him back to the path.

Peter grunts, and looks back, once they’re half-way down the hill. He shivers, because they’re both there, watching, just watching, as Steve drags him away.

“We clear, now?” asks Steve, shaking Peter’s arm a little. “You got any confusion about what I want outta you?”

Peter shakes his head and says, “No, sir.” That had been, that had been pretty clear.

“Well let’s get you to Bucky,” Steve announces. “Get you ready for breakfast. Oughta be interesting to see if the Boss notices anything different going on.”

Peter winces. None of that sounds like a good start to his day.

“It’s good you and ‘Tasha worked that out this morning, with you coming down to the Black Shield with us tonight,” muses Steve, as they approach the closest door. “She gets a little feisty when there’s good music and I hear Miss Bessie don’t know how to sing anything but good music.”

Peter blinks and stutters, “Oh, am I going? Harley wanted me to, been talking about it all week, Mr. Stark keeps saying we’ll see.”

“Aw, he can’t deny Hellcat anything that kid wants so bad,” laughs Steve, letting them both inside. “You watch, you’ll be loaded up with the rest of the baggage tonight. Oughta be a sweet treat.”

  


~~~

  


At breakfast, there’s eight men Peter doesn’t recognize on Tony’s end of the table, who look rough, but well-washed, their faces clearly scrubbed just for this event, seemingly. Pepper is uneasy, Peter realizes, but he doesn’t know how he knows that, since she says the same things she always does, and does things the same way. It’s just a tremor of disquiet, just below the surface of his skin that he feels, every time he looks at her, passes her the salt, answers her question. It makes him more and more nervous, as breakfast continues, until every mouthful of food tastes like ashes and he gives up on eating entirely, placing his silverware the way she’s taught him to, and lifting his mug of sweet coffee to cover his confusion.

The men are all well-behaved, sharing quiet stories of their families and home lives, their daily business as it pertains to weather and horses and cars and deliveries, and the minor inconveniences of life. There’s nothing happening around the table with the rest of the family that indicates anyone else is ill at ease. Mr. Stark is smiling as he chews and chats. Bucky’s smile flashes out a few times, too. Clint eats with the same lusty abandon, filling up before heading to bed, and Natasha teases everyone with the same wicked humor she always brings to the table.

When Mr. Stark stands, they all stand, a clear sign that the meal has ended, and file out into the grand hallway. Peter is hesitating, torn between following Pepper immediately into her salon and finding out from Steve who the men are, what they’re doing at _breakfast_ , when one of them sidles over to him and asks bluntly but quietly, like he’s not looking to be overheard, “You Peter Stark?”

“Yes, sir,” answers Peter warily. He still has no idea who the man is, Mr. Stark hadn’t introduced them.

“Yeah. Thought so.” The man shifts, blocking his body so that they’re separated from the rest of the people in the hall, leaning in to speak urgently. “Gotta message, kid paid me to get it to you. Said to tell you MJ and Ned wanted you to know they had the sock, was glad you landed in the clover. They been trying to send word, check in with you, but then the papers came out and they figured, well.” The man looks around and shrugs. “They figured.”

“Oh,” says Peter stupidly, his mind racing, heart pumping. _MJ_. _Ned._ _A message._ “Oh.”

“You want me to take anything back to the kid, you gotta make it worth my while,” says the man, shrugging, holding out one hand in front of his stomach.

“N-no, thank you, sir,” says Peter. He takes the cufflinks off his shirt, quickly, and drops them into the man’s palm. They’re the only thing on him of any value, the only thing he can think of to give this man, for bringing him this- _message_. The man pockets the links and gives him a lightning quick smile, nodding his head. “Thankee, Master Stark,” he says. “You’re all right.”

The man wanders off and Peter, Peter can’t go into the study with Pepper. He can’t go upstairs, either. He can’t, he can’t be here, right now. He shouldn’t- he should-

“Peter?” asks Bucky. “Angel?” Peter startles, whirling to face him, and Bucky’s face darkens. Without another word, he pushes Peter down the grand hall towards the door to Mr. Stark’s study and shoves him inside.

“What gives,” Bucky hisses.

“N-nothing,” Peter protests. 

“Not nothing, don’t you lie to me, boy,” thunders Bucky in a quiet tone. “What’s with the wild eyes?”

“I ain’t- _nothing_ ,” Peter says, his palms sweaty. 

Bucky raises a hand and slaps him, enough to sting, spitting, “I said don’t lie. _Spill_.”

“N-nothing,” says Peter again, tears in his eyes, flinching as Bucky raises his hand again.

“What,” says the calm and collected voice of Mr. Stark, the door closing silently behind him, “are we doing here?” Bucky lowers his hand down to his side, but his glower at Peter remains unchanged.

“N-nothing,” repeats Peter stubbornly, glaring at Bucky. “He’s h-hitting me but I ain’t done n-nothing.”

“Well,” drawls Mr. Stark, coming closer, fingers trailing over the backs of the leather furniture, the hardwood shelves, as he walks. “He does like it a bit rough, Angel, but somehow I don’t think you’re giving me the whole story, there.”

Peter winces.

“Something happened, kid looked like death warmed over of a sudden, something _happened_ , Boss,” reports Bucky, teeth glinting as he grimaces. “Won’t say what it was.”

“Mm,” says Tony, drifting closer. “Can’t have that, Peter Stark,” he singsongs, and Peter’s breathing goes funny as his heart stops beating. “Can’t have that.”

Mr. Stark runs a single finger down the hot side of Peter’s face, tracing, as he asks, “You do look pretty rattled. I don’t like it, now I see it. C’mon, baby, you won’t tell the wolf, tell Daddy what happened.”

“N-noth-” starts Peter, but Mr. Stark taps him on the lips, shaking his head. “Already got _one_ handprint, baby boy,” he singsongs, a clear warning that has Peter’s heart racing, his body flinching. “Notice you’re missing your links, too, links I gave you, baby boy, just to you, and you had ‘em, you did, you just had ‘em, I saw ‘em, I notice small things like that.”

Peter starts to tremble as Bucky swears under his breath.

“I-” he says, and then his breath catches. He can’t look away from Mr. Stark, whose eyes are glowing, just a little, glinting, with a funny light. “I’m s-sorry,” Peter gasps against the finger on his lips.

“Sorry for what?” hums Mr. Stark, tilting his head, cocking it, his eyes never leaving Peter’s face. “What happened, baby boy? Tell Daddy. Let him make it all better.”

“I- I-” stutters Peter, but he’s so scared, he’s so scared, he can’t think of what to say, how to explain.

“He’s scared spitless, won’t say what did it,” growls Bucky, surging forward.

Mr. Stark holds up a hand, one single finger, and it stops Bucky dead in his tracks, staring at it. “He’ll say,” he croons, turning his attention back to Peter. “He’ll tell Daddy, won’t you, baby?”

Peter licks his lips and nods, because there’s not, there’s not any options here, in this room, in this room with the Butcher, and his Wolf. He can’t, he doesn’t know what might happen, if Ned and MJ are gonna be in trouble. Harley said they weren’t supposed to- Harley said he’d take care of anyone trying to drag Peter back to the gutter. Harley said that life was over now, and then Ned and MJ had to send a _message_.

“See?” murmurs Mr. Stark, leaning back just a little, dropping the finger held up for Bucky. Peter is horrified when Bucky sways a moment. “He’s gonna tell me everything, and then I’m gonna make it all better,” singsongs Mr. Stark and Peter is terrified of his _voice_ , of the way it’s _twisted_ , it’s not right, it’s not Tony’s voice, it doesn’t belong to the Sheik, Peter knows, it’s someone else’s voice.

“Talk,” says Mr. Stark. “Tell me, baby, tell Daddy, so he can fix it.”

Peter nods again, and stammers, “I- I don’t want them to d-die.”

“Not up to you,” Mr. Stark tells him, slowly. “Not up to you to decide that. Never gonna be up to you, Angel, baby. Somebody needs killin’, it ain’t gonna touch you.” Peter flinches, drawing a short sharp breath, because that’s true, that’s absolutely true, it’s never going to be up to Peter, _nothing_ is ever up to Peter. 

“Tell me,” Mr. Stark says, and it’s not a croon, it’s a snap. Peter jumps.

“M-my friends, they- I know they shouldn’ta but they don’t know, they don’t know they shouldn’t, Mr. Stark, please,” he pleads, feeling the tears spring to his eyes. “I’ll tell ‘em not to, please.”

“Tell ‘em not to what?” asks Mr. Stark, voice roughening for the first time, dropping out of its sing song cadence.

“They- they said, they didn’t know, though-” babbles Peter, trying to force the words into some sort of coherency as they scatter around his brain in a panic. “They said, they just wanted me to know they were safe, they had, they had the money, they were worried about me but they’re not now, they just, they didn’t know, they didn’t know they weren’t supposedta.” 

“What money?” growls Bucky and Peter flinches.

“M-mine, my money, my, I saved it, they have it, I left it,” babbles Peter. “It was mine, I left it, it’s okay, I w-wanted them to have it.”

“Awful nice of you. What’re they doing they shouldn’t do?” asks Mr. Stark lowly. 

“S-sent a m-message,” whimpers Peter. “Shouldn’ta, Harley told me but they don’t know, they didn’t know, Mr. S-stark, I’m s-sorry.”

“Sent a message,” repeats Bucky darkly. “With _who_?”

Peter shakes his head. He doesn’t know, doesn’t know the man, couldn’t answer even if he could find the words to. “Fat Mack’s men. Go shake ‘em down,” orders Mr. Stark. “Red cufflinks, circles, you seen ‘em on me, one'a my old sets. Bring him here.” Bucky swears and stalks away. The door opens silently and closes silently behind him.

“Tell me ‘bout these friends you left your dough to,” says Mr. Stark. “They good kids, like you?”

Peter nods frantically. “They, yes, good kids. They work extra jobs, saving, we all did.” What else to say, how to make him see, they didn’t mean to, they didn’t know, they couldn’t know- “They take care of the younger ones, look out for them. Was gonna leave with them, come my birthday, was gonna, we was gonna be okay.”

“Why’d you give up the cufflinks?” asks Mr. Stark, accusatory.

“D-didn’t, couldn’t pay him, couldn’t, brought the m-message, it’s not s-safe, Harley s-said,” babbles Peter, because Mr. Stark is the reason it’s not safe, Mr. Stark won’t like it, Harley said. “J-just a th-thank you, they d-didn’t know, he m-might not know.”

“Not yours to give away,” Mr. Stark informs him hotly and Peter winces. 

“N-no, sir, d-didn’t, f-forgot- was all I had,” he says helplessly, eyes dropping.

“Fella dumb enough to carry messages,” and the word is a sneer, Peter’s stomach turns when it hits his ears, “is dumb enough to carry other things, for the right price. We don’t give away our nice things to dumb people, baby.”

There’s a knock at the door and Peter jumps.

“Stark?” calls Steve’s voice and Peter takes the first easy breath he’s had in minutes.

“In, Captain,” shouts Mr. Stark.

“Jesus,” swears Steve, walking quickly to where they’re standing. He lifts one hand, tracing Peter’s left cheek. “That entirely necessary, Boss?”

“Wasn’t me,” grunts Mr. Stark. “Need you to take him upstairs, your rooms, wait on me.”

“P-please,” begs Peter, reaching out a hand to touch Mr. Stark’s sleeve. “P-please don’t hurt them.”

Mr. Stark’s jaw tightens and his eyes flash as he shifts out of Peter’s grip, walks to the windows and looks out. “Not. Your. Call.”

“C’mon, Angel,” mutters Steve, grabbing Peter’s arm and half-carrying him to the side door, as Peter’s feet trip him up and he stays turned, looking at Mr. Stark, the lone figure in the opulent room, a slash of shadow against the morning light.

“Steve,” whimpers Peter, as Steve shoves him up the back staircase to the family wing. “Steve, he’s gonna kill them, please, you have to, they didn’t do nothing, they didn’t know. They’re _good_ , Steve. They just wanted me to know they were worried but they’re _not anymore_.”

“Shut it,” orders Steve, throwing him a dark look. “We can talk when we’re in the room.”

Peter blinks and nods, and stumbles faster.

When Steve closes the door, he locks it, and pulls Peter over to the couch, shoves him down. “Talk,” he says bluntly. “I’m listening. Try to make sense, if you can.”

“My, my friends, at the Home, they sent a message. Well, no, I think someone else sent a message through this guy, the guy at breakfast?” babbles Peter.

“Slow down some,” says Steve. “We’re gonna be in here for a bit, you got time for breathing and talking.”

“There was a guy, came up to me after breakfast,” says Peter, taking a deep breath. “Said he had a message from a fella, from my friends. He just said they were worried, they got the money I left behind, I left it for them, but that they weren’t worried no more, Steve, because they heard about me from the papers. That’s all.”

Steve winces. “Peter, how’d that get you slapped?”

“Oh, no, that was Bucky,” Peter tells him, awkwardly. “I didn’t, Harley said Mr. Stark wouldn’t like it if anyone tried to drag me back, drag me down. He said I wasn’t supposed to talk to them, not answer any letters, any of that. So I _didn’t_ , Steve, and they _ain’t even tried_. I been good, I promise Steve, but they didn’t know, they didn’t know they wasn’t supposed to message me.”

“Why’d Bucky hit you?” asks Steve.

Peter rolls his eyes. “I wouldn’t tell him, I didn’t want, Steve, he’s gonna kill them, ain’t he? Harley _said_.”

“He might, he could,” admits Steve, sighing. Peter groans at this confirmation of his fears. “Depends on how much he figures they’re looking to use you. Message like you just said, could be them reaching out to see if they got leverage, Angel.” He shifts, looks at Peter with solemn eyes. “They got leverage?”

Peter sits back, aghast. Leverage? Like Phil said to use against managers? “I- I- what do you mean?”

“They got anything on you, can they make you do things? How much you care about them? What’d you do, if they needed help?” His eyes are serious, his face still, as Peter searches it for any sign of hope.

“I’d-” Peter’s mind races, thinking of MJ and Ned, needing his help, turning up here, needing his _help_. 

“I don’t know,” he whispers to Steve, horrified. “What kind of help? I won’t, they’re just my friends, Steve, just my old friends.”

“Yeah, I got some of those,” admits Steve, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t take secret messages from them at breakfast, is all.”

Peter’s jaw drops and he whispers, “I didn’t- it wasn’t _like that_ , though.”

“I believe you,” says Steve, slowly. “What’s your plan for convincing Tony?”

Peter shakes his head, aghast. “I- I don’t, Steve, I don’t have _plans_.”

“Yeah, Angel, I believe you,” says Steve. “But I ain’t the one you gotta convince, around here.” His eyes narrow. “What’s wrong with them sleeves? Bucky grab you on your wrists?”

Peter touches his cuffs. “I- I didn’t have nothing to give to the guy, thought he should get paid.”

Steve groans, “Tell me you didn’t. Angel, you’re so smart, you’re as dumb as a goddamn fox, why the hell-”

“I didn’t do nothing,” spits Peter, surging up to his feet, his voice raising higher and higher as he vents his frustration and fear. “I didn’t, I just don’t want them to get hurt! I’m scared all the time, Steve, you- Harley _kidnapped_ me! And they were scared, too! And they just were telling me they were happy I landed in clover, Steve! You don’t kill people for wishing you well, that’s crazy!”

“Sit. Down,” orders Steve, his tone clipped and cold, his body completely still, hands hovering just above his knees. Peter swallows, and collapses back down onto the couch. 

“I’m sorry,” whispers Peter, licking his lips. “I’m sorry Steve. I don’t, I didn’t want, I’m just-”

“Button up,” Steve tells him curtly. 

Peter presses his lips together, breath hissing through his nose.

“I don’t know where the Boss’s head is at,” says Steve slowly. “Seems to me it’s all just a misunderstanding, maybe a little worrying a man was willing to bring a message t’ya, but Bucky can deal with that, comes to it. Or Tasha. You planning to run off, meet up with these friends?”

“What?” asks Peter, a sinking feeling filling his stomach. “No, Steve, no, I’m- I’m a Stark, I told you, told you I can’t go back.” His voice trails off as the other man doesn’t say anything reassuring. “Steve?” he asks quietly.

“Just thinking it all through,” says Steve, quietly. Peter nods, and waits in silence for several long minutes. 

“Damnfool thing, giving him the links,” sigh Steve eventually. Peter winces.

After several more moments of silence, Steve sighs, and scrubs his face again, and says, “Well, go hit the can, they come in here all hot up, won’t have time to do it then.” Peter nods and stands quietly, walking with quiet feet to the bathroom.

He’s washing his hands when there’s a knock at the door. He throws the towel and walks into the bedroom and Steve motions for him to sit in the armchair. Peter perches on the edge of it, eyes glued to the door.

When Steve unlocks it, and it swings open, Peter swallows. Mr. Stark is wiping his hands. He hands the towel back to Karen and says, “Thanks, doll.” He stalks in, eyes glinting, and nods his head at Steve before crouching before Peter.

“Here,” he says, thrusting a hand up at Peter. “Don’t give ‘em to a dummy ever again, Peter, I mean it.” Peter opens his hand and two cufflinks drop into it. 

“N-no, Mr. Stark,” whispers Peter. “S-sorry, I- I wasn’t thinking.” He starts to put them in his sleeves, immediately, dropping them frequently as his fingers shake, listening to the other two talk above him. Mr. Stark places a hand on each of his knees and doesn’t offer to help, watching Peter’s fingers fumble.

“Think we got it sorted, Steve,” Mr. Stark says. “Kid came up to the new guy on Mack’s crew, who was bragging on our little breakfast this morning at the local coffee clutch. Passed him some dough to tell Peter his friends had found the money he left ‘em, wished him well. Wasn’t even the kid’s idea, the dough, was the new guy feeling his salt, shaking the kid down. Couple a’quarters, lunch money. That’s all. New guy never even got the kid’s name.”

“S’what he says, too,” agrees Steve. “Hangs together. They’re orphans, Boss.”

“Yeah,” agrees Mr. Stark. He scrubs a hand on his face. “Fuck, what a mess. Knew things were too smooth, after one a’Harley’s little schemes.”

“You take care of the new guy?”

“Yeah, Bucky and Clint’ve got him, explaining things. Just dumb,” says Mr. Stark. “Give him another shot at being smart.”

“Not coming here again,” warns Steve. “Guy carryin’ a message, shouldn’t be carryin’ it near here.”

“No,” agrees Mr. Stark. “Never again. Just dumb, though.” His hands twitch on Peter’s legs and Peter notices there’s some dirt under his nails, black.

“Thought up a solution, you want to hear it,” offers Steve.

“Yeah, could use ideas,” sighs Mr. Stark, tapping his fingers on Peter’s leg, looking up at Peter’s face. “Spun out of balance on this one. Thought someone’s found my new weak spot before I’d done everything to plug it up.” Peter flinches from the word _plug_ , heart racing.

“Hire the friends, Angel’s friends, cushy post in one of the factories, Boston maybe, someplace. Get ‘em where you can see ‘em, far enough away they ain’t a problem. Keep ‘em safe, make sure they’re cared for,” suggests Steve and Peter breathes in, a quick gasp of air, heart rising dizzily with hope.

Mr. Stark stills, thinking it through. “Would they go, Angel?” he asks.

“Got nowhere else to be, Mr. Stark,” answers Peter honestly. “We was gonna figure it out once we got out, but, I was the first one, August 26th.” Just a couple months away, he realizes with a shock. 

“Do it,” sighs Mr. Stark. “Send- send Happy. Talk to Pepper. Figure it out.” He looks at Peter, eyes tired, looking so tired Peter aches. “That work for you, Angel?”

Peter can’t help it, the relief is so overwhelming he pitches forward, wraps his arms around Mr. Stark, clutching tight to the other man. “Thank you,” he chants, over and over again, into the skin at the curve of the other man’s neck. He feels Mr. Stark’s hands come up, wrap around him, wrap around the base of his neck, hold him there for a second. 

“S-sorry,” he apologizes again, drawing back. “I didn’t mean to give them away, I just, I didn’t have any way to tip him.”

Mr. Stark snorts. “You saying we coulda prevented busted knuckles to start my morning by giving you some pocket change and a lecture about _accepting messages_ , Angel?” His hand rises and skims the left side of Peter’s face, wincing a little.

Peter breathes slowly, and then asks, in a small, humble voice, “What, what should I have done?”

Dammit, he messed up again, he’s always messing up.

“Man comes up to you with a message, just for you, Angel, it’s a great way to get plugged fulla holes,” grunts Mr. Stark, resting his hand on Peter’s chest. “So you run for Steve, for Bucky, any of ‘em can handle that, fast as you can. Man wants to send me a message, he won’t be doing it through you.” Peter shivers, because he hadn’t thought, the man had been at _breakfast_ with them. But he can see it, now, he can see how a fella could slip in, send a message that way. He shivers again, wide eyed, gaping at Mr. Stark’s intent gaze. “Man gives you some _words_ , from someone, _anyone_ , you run them by Steve, Bucky, Clint, Tasha, or me, fast as you hear ‘em. Faster, if you can. No secrets here, secrets’ll topple us faster than a deck o’cards inna stiff breeze.”

“Y’ain’t playing by orphan’s rules,” interjects Steve softly. “You’re the heir to the richest man, both sides of the world, Angel. Gotta get smarter than this, real fast.”

Peter nods, quickly. “M sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t, I- Harley said-“

“Yeah,” sighs Mr. Stark, shifting to look over his shoulder at Steve. “Harley had his fun, I didn’t realize he’d got you in a lather about your old friends.” Steve sighs, too, wiping his face, shaking it. Mr. Stark looks back at Peter and says, “I ain’t gonna bump off kids just to keep ‘em from you. I got enough red on my hands, Peter, ain’t looking for new avenues to add to it.”

Peter shifts, feeling shame rise. “S-sorry,” he whispers.

“They come here looking for hand-outs, they’ll be turned away, by you, too, Peter,” says Mr. Stark sternly. “I don’t know ‘em, and I don’t like that I don’t own ‘em, can’t guarantee they’ll be safe.”

Peter opens his mouth to protest, but shuts it, because that makes sense, from Mr. Stark’s point of view, for the Empire. “But I won’t kill ‘em for some kid friend of theirs taking an opportunity to try to tell you they’re doing fine,” adds Mr. Stark, rolling his eyes to look at Steve. Steve huffs, a small smile playing over his lips. “It’s a good idea, what Steve says,” Mr. Stark tells Peter. “They get set up, they won’t be desperate. Desperate people are people who can be leaned on, Angel, I lean on ‘em all the time. Make people do all kinda things they wouldn’t do, they wasn’t desperate. So we’ll set ‘em up. And you’ll work on wisin’ up.” He pats Peter’s knees gently. “We got us a deal, Angel?”

Peter leans forward and presses his lips to Mr. Stark’s, pulling back just far enough to say, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t- I didn’t-“ _trust_ , _know, believe_ \- “I’m sorry, Tony.”

Mr. Stark makes a surprised noise, and then kisses Peter back. They break apart after a few short minutes and he clears his throat, head tilting, hiding something, Peter knows. “You’re a good Angel, Peter. Little naive, little innocent, but we’ll work on it. Just gotta start running to one of us when things get janky, not try to think your way out of things you ain’t never gonna have to worry about.”

Peter sighs, “I’m sorry,” again.

Mr. Stark raises a hand to his left cheek, traces the hotness there. “Yeah, I bet you are. Bucky’s some hot under the collar, you scarin’ him like that. He don’t like to be the one what hurt you, Angel.”

Peter bites his lip and says, “I shoulda said- he just did it to make me talk, Tony. Wasn’t his fault.”

“He’s got a temper,” Mr. Stark tells him, which, yeah, Peter had noticed that all on his lonesome just now. “Not suited to you, ‘s why the Captain is for you. Captain woulda coaxed it, Sarge tries to force it. He’s too used to dealin’ with Harley, who won’t listen until punches are flyin’ at his ears. Don’t like that he did it, all of us promisin’ you wouldn’t get hurt, but it’s good you acknowledge your part in it, too. Wise up, Angel, learn to come running when the situation needs one of us.”

Peter nods and Tony stands up. “That about cover it, Captain?” He asks Steve.

Steve purses his lips and says, “Yeah. You gonna warn Harley?”

“Think Peter should go in there, wake him up, explain my morning to him,” chuckles Tony. “Don’t see why he should get to sleep when half’a this mess’s all on him for kidnapping in the first place. Oughta call Rhodey, have him put in the clink for a month or two, soften him up to some smarts.”

“Deputy Inspector’s a little high for a petty crime like Harley,” chuckles Steve. “Lemme get Sam on the horn.”

Tony barks a laugh and stands, scrubbing his face. “I do like to hear you call me Tony,” Tony tells the floor, out of the blue, glowering at it in a way that leaves Peter wondering what the carpet ever did to him. “Was wondering what I was doing wrong, you getting on a first name basis with Karen and the cooks, keeping me at arm’s reach with all that Mr. Stark razzle dazzle.”

Peter swallows, because that- he hadn’t meant to _hurt_ Tony. It just, it hadn’t felt right. And now he was wrong, again, and someone else is hurt, again, and it's _Tony_ , the guy who lets him sit and read his book, who stopped Bucky and who helps Peter calm down whenever he needs it. Peter sighs. He can’t do anything right, in this house. After a dejected second thinking of all the ways he's messed up today, Peter sets his jaw and thinks fiercely, _B_ _ut I can learn better._ He looks up at Tony, and lets a little of that fierceness out as he says, “I didn’t mean it that way, I was just trying to be respectful. I was just trying to show you I know who’s Boss, that’s all.”

Steve snorts, “Only you, Boss, can get your feelings hurt by someone being properly respectful.” Peter slots him a grateful glance, which he catches with a slight nod.

Tony sighs, “Yeah, that’s probably true.”

“But you’re Tony now,” Peter assures the man, thinking, _my Tony_ , a little shocked by the possessive feeling that goes along with those words.

Tony glances over at him, the glower shifting into a smirk, “Shoulda rescued you from the Wolf sooner, I guess.”

Peter smiles back, relieved to see Tony returned to his playful expression, here in the family wing, where he spends most of his time smirking and teasing. It looks right on him, it looks _good_. Peter likes it. There’s another knock at the door, before he can say more about how Tony could rescue him from _shaving_ as well as getting hit any time he wants _, thanks_. Steve and Tony call in unison, “In here.”

Clint pops his head in the doorway, but comes in no further. He looks over at Peter and whistles, long and low, his face darkening. “George do that?” he demands, nodding.

“Nah, kid wouldn’t answer Bucky,” says Tony, rolling his eyes. “Lost his mind, wasn’t thinking clear.”

“Oh, goody, gonna have that thundercloud crashing around,” complains Clint.

“Scram,” sighs Tony.

“Gone,” agrees Clint, pulling the door closed after him.

“I ain’t even had my first drink yet,” Tony tells the room at large. Peter’s so grateful for the exaggerated cant in his voice, the way he plays up the roughness. It’s relaxing, it’s soothing, after that singsong deadly playfulness of earlier. Tony may be MIT educated, but he runs a crowd of rough men and he knows how to blend, he’s a master of it, putting the people around him at ease most of the time. That singsong crooning voice, the banked fire in his eyes, are going to haunt Peter, he knows it, but they belong to a different Tony, not this Tony. Not _his_ Tony.

“If we’re gonna wake Harley,” says Steve, “could ask Karen to send it up with the tray.”

“Nah. I should go down, get started on my day.” But as Peter watches, he doesn’t move, he just stands there. He looks so tired, thinks Peter. He just looks so tired.

Peter stands up, biting his lip because maybe he’s wrong, he’s been so wrong today, already, but Tony looks tired. He slides his arm around the man’s waist, ducking his head to Tony’s chest. “‘M sorry,” he mutters, again. 

Tony sighs, pulling him tighter and wrapping one hand up behind Peter’s head. “Wasn’t even your fault, Angel. Coulda handled it better, but this’s all on that George, damnfool thing t’do, carrying a message he didn’t tell no one about. Rookie mistake, ain’t gonna get him in t’the big leagues, that’s for damn sure.” He leans his cheek on Peter’s head, though, and Peter remembers that from when Aunt May and Uncle Ben were still alive.

“You gonna talk to Bucky?” asks Steve quietly.

Tony snorts, “And tell ‘im what, exactly, Captain? We both of us got tempers, I know how they work, so’s he. Be kicking himself all day, Angel walking around red-cheeked.” Peter rubs his other cheek against Tony’s shirtfront and Tony sighs. “I’m the last guy to give that speech to him.”

“Wasn’t his fault,” says Peter stubbornly, glaring over at Steve, making Steve’s eyebrows fly up. “He was scared and I wasn’t talking.”

Tony snorts. “Being scared don’t erase being stupid, Angel. Smacking Harley loosens him up, smacking you’s like to make you fall apart. You ain’t made for that kinda treatment, baby, and he oughta know that without havin’ to try it out, see how it don’t work.”

“Well, let’s go wake Harley, shake the whole house up,” sighs Steve, turning to lead the way to the door.

“Haven’t even had my first drink,” repeats Tony, but he pulls Peter along with him, tight, held in his arms, like he can’t quite bear to let Peter go just yet. “Scare like that and I ain’t even had my first drink.”

Steve snorts as he opens the door, “Well, go wake up Hellcat, pass the scare onto him, then get yourself set up down in your study.” Tony seems to brighten at this advice, his steps coming a little faster, less reluctant, as they move into the hallway and towards Harley’s room. Peter can feel his heart rate speed up for a minute, but then it settles again, as Tony pats his back, waiting for Steve to open the door. The calm place deep inside him reaches up and out for him, spreading through his limbs, as Tony keeps him close, guiding him through the furniture to the big bed where Harley is still stretched out. Peter wonders if maybe he can follow Tony back down to his study, stay close for the rest of the morning, skip his usual with Pepper, and hang tight to Tony, where he feels safest, calmest, balanced. He resolves to ask, after they get done waking up Harley and spreading the scare to him. He’s had a rough start on this day, already.


	2. Chapter 2

Harley takes it about as well as Peter had feared, jumping out of bed and demanding the doctor come see to Peter’s face, threatening to kill whoever raised their hand to his baby brother, and setting a stubborn jaw when Tony tells him it was Bucky. He stampedes over Peter’s protests that it wasn’t Bucky’s fault with demands that Bucky be _dealt_ with, which makes Tony snap back at him that the whole business is Harley’s own stupid fault. There’s a lot of shouting and throwing things, then, and Steve tucks Peter into his bunk bed to stand back and lean against it, watching the show with a small smile on his face that helps calm Peter’s panic before it starts.

Eventually, though, they shout themselves out, stop throwing things, and then Harley’s crouching in front of Peter, his eyes intent and serious. “You’re so dumb,” he tells Peter, one hand hovering over Peter’s hot cheek, carefully not touching. “I never knew it, you knowing all kinds of things outta books I don’t know, but you’re such a dummy, Angel.”

Peter’s told everyone else already, so he’s not objecting to telling Harley. “‘M sorry, Harley,” he says seriously. “Shoulda answered him right away. I just got scared, wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Well, that’s some on me,” says Harley. Both Tony and Steve make shocked noises, watching the two of them on the bunk bed. “I can admit it,” says Harley defensively. “Just ‘cause I _don’t_ doesn’t mean I _can’t_.”

“News to me you could,” mutters Steve and Tony slants him a look of agreement. “Leastways, prior to beatin’ it outta you.”

“Maybe Angel’s setting me a good example, all them sorries he throws around,” chuckles Harley up at Peter. “I didn’t mean- I was trying to warn you away from them, not make you think they was in danger,” he tells Peter. “You can’t have ‘em anymore, had to make that clear. Ain’t safe for anyone, them being your old pals. Ain’t safe for them, neither.”

Peter nods, because it’s not fair, but it’s true. “Boss says,” he says quietly, “Boss says he’ll set ‘em up with jobs, at a Stark plant, keep ‘em close enough we can keep an eye on ‘em, and happy so they don’t get desperate.”

“And loyal,” agrees Harley. “That’s smart. That’s just what I shoulda done, right off. I was so concentrated on them papers, and on havin’ you, I wasn’t thinking through all the details.”

Peter can see Tony and Steve shoot each other disbelieving looks behind Harley’s head and it’s hard not to grin. He looks at Harley and says, “I usedta shout the papers, Harley. So it wasn’t all you scarin’ me.”

“Ahh, they’ll hang anything on us,” complains Harley, face twisting with annoyance. “Once had ‘em try to say I was in Canada killing a man and then driving to Georgia to knock off some broad in the same night.”

“Real useful for covering up the red paintin’ you was doing down in Harlem that night,” agrees Tony with a snort. “Sam didn’t even stop by to ask after where you been that night, following leads. Too many stories flying around already to believe it.”

Peter’s had about enough of being reminded that everyone in the room but him is a dangerous person. He thinks of Pepper, how she floats through their lives and twitches them upwards, how she’s got Harley on the last of the McGuffy Readers and how Tony apologizes for taking the Lord’s name in her presence. He looks at Harley and he says, firmly, “You go bring me Bucky, Harley. You go get him and you bring him here, so I can say I’m sorry for scaring him.”

Harley glares and opens his mouth to protest. Peter stands up, crossing his arms and glaring down at Harley. “No,” he tells Harley. “I seen my face in that bathroom, it’s already almost nothing to look at, and I ain’t having him walking around a- a- _thundercloud_ , stirring everybody up, when he’s only stirred up because of how I messed up. I owe him an apology. And you can go fetch him for me, ‘cause you owe me one.” Harley’s mouth snaps shut and he glances over his shoulder at Tony. Tony’s eyebrows have risen, and his lips are twitching as he spreads his hands at Harley, clearly indicating he doesn’t have any ammunition to stop what Peter wants from happening.

“Better listen to him, Hellcat,” says Steve, the grin evident in his voice. “Saw him argue down the whole Board on Monday, sight to see. Man sets his mind to something, he’s tenacious like a bulldog.”

Peter gives Harley a short jerk of his chin, because maybe that hadn’t been true when they’d first met, but it’s _going_ to be true. It’s going to have to be true, if he’s going to run his half of the Empire as heir. He’s learning, as fast as he can, learning how to manage people, watching Pepper manage them and listening to Phil talk about how knowing people is the first part of managing them. Well, he figures he’s spent enough time with Harley in two weeks that maybe he doesn’t know everything, but he can figure out where to lean a little. Harley rolls his eyes and stands and says sarcastically, “Yes, sahib, my pleasure, sahib, any idea where he’s at, sahib?”

Peter shrugs “Go get your coffee, too, while you’re at it,” he suggests, because running this particular errand oughta have a reward, maybe. Carrot and the stick, is what Phil said. 

“Might do,” snarls Harley, and he wanders out of the room muttering, still in his drawers and undershirt. Peter smiles as the door clicks shut and looks over at the other men to bask in their approval.

“Pepper in her parlor, or the suite?” Steve asks Tony in a stunned voice. “Can’t wait to tell her what I just seen.”

“Me first,” says Tony, and then they make smiling eye contact briefly before they both take off for the door to her suite, running and shouting, shoving each other into the doorways, laughing.

Peter’s alone, then. He sits back down on his bunk and feels _odd_ , like his stuffing isn’t sitting right just under the surface, or maybe his skin is stitched on too tight. He feels _wrong_. He’s used to shaky, now, seems like he’s always shaky around this place, always being batted at, messed with, always feeling his heart speed up. And Tony can touch him, last few days, and that calm soaks in until his muscles feel loose and light, until his bones are lead and solid, until he feels ready for just about anything. He brushes a hand over his aching cheek and he knows, he knows, it’s already just three red angry lines, no way to tell how he got ‘em, really.

When the door opens, it’s not the one from Pepper’s suite, so Peter stirs, steels himself to not be scared. Bucky’s voice says, “Naw, Hellcat, you go on, let us have a minute.”

Harley makes some hissing reply, but it’s only Bucky who steps through the door, radiating sullen menace in a way that makes Peter’s resolve shake a little at the foundations. He closes the door behind him, firmly, and stalks over to Peter on the bunk. Peter draws up his legs until he can wrap his knees around them, tug them tight. Bucky crouches by the bed, silent, and looks up at him.

Peter takes a second to just look at Bucky, really look at the Devilside man, because Bucky’s cold blue eyes aren’t looking at Peter’s _eyes_ and so it’s safe to look all he wants. Bucky wears his hair long, unlike the whole rest of the house, and he doesn’t use the kinda slick that the dandies use. It doesn’t make him look soft, though. Just makes him look wild. 

Peter breathes, and then slides his feet down the edge of the mattress to dangle and says, “Bucky, I’m sorry.”

Bucky makes a pained noise like he’s been hit, and his eyes flinch up to Peter’s eyes before glaring away, over Peter’s shoulder at the wall. “Got a temper,” he mutters.

“No, I mean,” says Peter, taking a deep breath again, “I shoulda come running, shoulda known you would help me. Woulda stopped this whole-” he waves his hand in a small circle- “whole morning, if I’d come running to you.” Bucky has stilled, until he doesn’t look like a human, he looks like a statue. It makes it a little easier to keep talking, to keep confessing. “I’m sorry ‘bout that, ‘bout not thinking first that you’re- that _we’re-_ Starks, first.”

Bucky twitches, then, and looks up into Peter’s face. “Ain’t had much practice, have ya,” he mutters. His hand raises up, like everyone’s hand has done so far when they get a look at him, but stops, hesitant. Peter reaches for it, guides it up to his cheek, and rests it there.

“No, I ain’t,” he says simply. “But I mean to.”

“Told you you wasn’t getting hurt by anyone,” says Bucky gruffly. “Told you you was safe, here.”

“I am safe,” Peter tells him quietly. “You keep me safe.”

“Slapped you silly,” argues Bucky. “You was already panicking, any idiot could see that, and what d’I do but slap you into more of it, worse.” He’s not saying sorry, but his voice is so full of it that Peter’s throat closes tight in sympathy.

“I know some about wolves,” says Peter quietly. “They got big wolves and little ones. I watched a nickelodeon showed how the big ones nip the little ones, keep ‘em in line when there’s danger. That’s it, Bucky, that’s all you was doing.” He shrugs his shoulder.

“Nah, dog bites a man, you put the dog down,” mutters Bucky, shifting, like he wants to take his hand down, but Peter’s eyes narrow a bit and he has hold of Bucky’s hand, pressed to his cheek. Bucky, he realizes, ain’t going anywhere until Peter’s done talking.

“Maybe,” says Peter, but he’s feeling pretty confident, all of a sudden. “Unless he nips you to keep you from stepping straight into an open manhole. Saw that once, that dog got a bone.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, and grits, “I ain’t getting _praised_ for hitting you. Ain’t _you_ should be apologizing, Angel.”

“I’m learning as fast as I can, my head’s spinning with it,” Peter says, quickly. “But I don’t know as much as I should. Harley called me a dummy and he’s _right_ , Bucky. I was a dummy today. And I got hit for it, which, you been promisin’ to hit me for being dumb since my first five minutes, Bucky. I knew the score when I signed my name.”

“Ain’t like that,” says Bucky, his blue eyes narrowing at each repetition of the word dummy until he’s glaring at Peter outright. “You ain’t dumb, yer just innocent.”

“Like a lamb who’s gonna get slaughtered,” Peter tells him bluntly. “Well, I can’t be no lamb, Bucky, not even for you. I gotta be part wolf, if I’m Peter Stark. And being a wolf means getting nipped sometimes, without it being a three-part opera.”

Bucky blows out a breath, shaking his head, but his lips are twitching and Peter know he’s won, knows it in the pit of his stomach. “Kid, I never heard anyone argue a hittin’ was what they needed before,” he chuckles.

“You never had an angel like me before,” Peter declares confidently, rubbing his cheek against Bucky’s hand and not hissing when it hurts a little. Starks aren’t scared of a little pain. “I’m gonna learn how to be part wolf, gonna learn all kinds of things to help me be Peter _Stark,_ ‘stead of some dumb orphan no one wants.”

“We wanted ya,” says Bucky, and there’s a twinkle in his eye, deep down. “We wanted that dumb orphan.”

“Well, joke’s on you, I ain’t staying a dumb orphan, I’m gonna learn enough I’m not making mistakes all the time,” retorts Peter. “Gonna learn enough you don’t hafta get mad at me because I’ll be doing the right thing.”

“I’m reminding you of those words, the first time Steve licks ya for some mischief,” chuckles Bucky.

“I ain’t never needed a lickin’ before, I ain’t never gonna earn one,” Peter informs him. He’d never been slapped, though, he thinks quietly. He’d never been kissed, never spilled, not like he’s done for these men here, never had steak, never drank sweet coffee for breakfast, never shot an arrow. There’s a whole life of never-befores that are stretching out in front of him, he can feel it. He sets his jaw when Bucky chuckles some more, because that's one thing he's never going to need, though.

“You’re not counting on the persuasive power of Hellcat,” Bucky informs him. “Jarvis’s been whuppin’ half the stableboys and gardener’s brats since he got here, and most of them never needed it before Harley Stark, neither.”

“Well, I made him come get you, and he apologized to me, said the whole thing was half his fault,” Peter says with a sly smile.

“He apologized to you?” says Bucky in frank disbelief. “Harley? Hellcat?”

“Said I was setting him a good example,” nods Peter. 

Bucky’s hand rubs at Peter’s cheek, just a little, as he chuckles in amazement. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he tells Peter. “Never thought I’d see it.”

“He was some mad at you, I made him go get you so I could apologize to you,” Peter tells him.

“Hissing and spitting the whole time,” laughs Bucky. “Demanding I make up his coffee and shoving me up the stairs to get to you before the cream even had time to mix with the black.”

Bucky pulls his hand away from Peter’s cheek slowly, fingers lingering just a moment, tracing the spaces between the three red lines. “Well, hell, Angel. I’m sick you’re gonna wear my handprint all day, but if that’s the way you want it, that you’re learning to be a little wolf, wolf enough to survive some, well, I guess I can’t hold out against it. Don’t go learning so much you think you can start snapping up at me, though,” he says warningly, cold eyes flashing a moment. “Don’t want another Hellcat I gotta straighten out twice a week.”

Peter shakes his head and promises Bucky, “No, sir, one slap for being a dummy’s plenty enough for me.”

Bucky chuckles, standing and pulling Peter up with him. “You sure are something else, Angel. Never in my life ever heard anyone argue they wanted a hittin’.”

“I didn’t _want_ it,” splutters Peter, as Bucky turns them toward the door to Pepper’s room.

“Oh, arguing you _needed_ some rough handling ain’t exactly a good idea, either,” laughs Bucky. “Not around here, too many wolves around here, Angel. Best we keep this little talk between us for now.”

Peter sighs, opening the door, and says, “We can keep it between us _forever_ , Bucky, one wolf chomping at me’s enough for me.” He steps forward into the pink and gold of Pepper’s bathroom quickly, eagerly, letting Bucky take care of closing the door behind them. Peter needs Tony, needs the calm that fills him whenever Tony is so close. He’s eager to get back close to the man, to see if he’ll let Peter sit beside him for the morning, let Peter rest his head and let the world drop back a bit. Peter’s done it again, let himself make mistakes and get himself spun silly, but he knows if Tony’ll just let him rest there for a few hours, Peter’ll calm and have this all sorted out for the future.

Bucky chuckles and follows Peter through the bathroom, into Pepper’s room, stalking along just behind his left shoulder. Right where a devil like him belongs, thinks Peter with a snort, his eyes searching for and finding Tony, coffee in hand beside Pepper, pillow already on the ground by his shoes like _he knew that Peter would want it._ Bucky gives Peter’s shoulders a little push, because that’s what devils do, Peter’s learning, they push you, and then it’s your job not to stumble too much as you walk yourself forward.

Peter can’t learn to be a devil, he wouldn’t want to be one. The family doesn’t need another devil, anyway. It needs an angel, and they picked Peter, and now he’s gotta learn to make fewer mistakes and start trusting that they picked right. They may be devils, but they’re his devils, now, because his name is Peter Stark, and he’s not just a lamb. He’s Peter Stark, and he can calm the Wolf and teach Harley to apologize. Natasha never kissed a good man in the whole of her life, but just after dawn today, she kissed him. He doesn’t know what he’s going to learn today, but he’s ready for it, because as much as they drag him down into sinning, he can lift them up into something better, he knows he can, because he’s already done it. He’s Peter Stark, the heir to the Angelside of the Stark Empire, and if he can’t do all that he needs to yet, he’ll do it soon, just as fast as he can learn it.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a link to the song in the title, if you want it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-_ojHptfZf4
> 
> You can absolutely meet me in the comments section with ideas for future scenes and chapters in this AU. It's definitely very work-in-progress.
> 
> ALSO ALSO, I am looking for new stories/authors to read. If you want to make it feel like my birthday, you could take this opportunity to throw me some links to your faves! Anything well written works for me (it doesn't HAVE to be filthy, but filthy's fine, I'm fine with filthy. LOOK AT WHAT I WRITE, I'm fine with filthy)!


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